


Patience

by apostapals (apostapal)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Gender-Neutral Hawke, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8781253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apostapal/pseuds/apostapals
Summary: Prompt fill. Fenris is bad at being patient.





	

He’ll wear a hole in the floor if he keeps this up. But he can’t stop. Back and forth, eyes on the grain of the wood floors beneath his feet, he paces.

The last letter, two days ago, said Hawke was due back any day. He knows, deep down, that they could take any amount of time. The roads weren’t easy travel, to be sure, and they’d already had to sidetrack from their route to Weisshaupt to meet him.

But Fenris is bad at waiting. He’s bad at patience. Their time apart, alone, was far too long. And adding length to it is simply enough to drive him up the walls. So even when he sits, he fidgets. Bounces his knee or taps his fingers, picks at the tabletop.

Hawke waited so long for him. The least he could do was patiently await them in return but no. The power isn’t in him.

He rereads their letter again, to be sure. Checks the date with the time they estimated their arrival to be. Checks the calendar for the hundredth time. Then he checks the letter again to be sure he’s reading it right.

He misses them. Wants them there, right then, in his arms. Letting them go alone had been difficult enough and now they weren’t even arriving on schedule. He didn’t know what to do with himself.

There’s a knock at the door and he jumps, darting over to it in a flash, but it’s just the maid asking if he’s alright. He apologizes for the noise and she leaves him to his (slightly quieter) fidgeting.

He tries to read, briefly, but it doesn’t work. He can’t focus, the words spinning on the page, and he has to stop himself from tossing the book at the wall. No sense in getting himself kicked out of the inn for being frustrated.

Hours pass like days and by mid-afternoon he’s worried he’d gone to the wrong inn or Hawke was in danger or, really, a million other things at once could have happened. He can’t get himself to eat, his breakfast still untouched, and he knows the first thing out of Hawke’s mouth will be tutting him over it. He leaves the food anyway.

By the time dusk rolls around, he feels faint enough to force dry bread and water down before flopping onto his rented bed in a heap of defeat. He’s nearly ready to bury himself in fretful sorrow over Hawke’s lack of appearance when he hears the lock of the door slowly click open.

“It’s me.”

Hawke’s voice soothes any of the momentary guard that raises in him, hand not even touching the sword propped by his bed, and Fenris springs to life again, standing at the side of the bed rather than rushing them at the door. He allows them to get inside, shucking off a damp overcoat and knapsack, before taking a step closer.

“You made it.” he says, quietly, and reaches to touch them. To be sure they’re there and he hasn’t just fallen asleep.

They smile as his fingers graze their cheek, warm and real, and say, “I told you I would.”

Fenris grabs their shirt front then, pulls them in and gathers them in his arms and holds for dear life. They’re filthy from travel and chilled from the wet winter weather but he doesn’t care. Because they’re Hawke and that alone makes them well worth the wait.


End file.
